The Alphabet Trick
by Paper Pearls
Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots focussed on a wide variety of characters and pairings. Every one of the chapters is inspired by a prompt beginning with a different letter of the alphabet.
1. Apprehensive: Neville Longbottom

**This is a collection of one-shots and drabbles focussed on a variety of characters and pairings. It's my response to **_**Written Sparks'**_** "26 prompts, one for each letter of the alphabet" challenge.**

**OoOoO**

Killing the snake was the grandest gesture that he would ever make in his life, and Neville Longbottom knew it. His career would never be a string of spectacular adventures and – beyond discovering the medicinal properties of plants – there would be no more saving lives or making a difference in the magical community.

For one moment, Neville had been a hero; not quite a fairytale knight in shining armour, but it was _his_ sweaty hand that had held the sword and he who had swung the blade through the air so quickly that it had whistled. And for those few brief seconds, the clumsy, careless boy was replaced by a fearless man – the one his grandmother had been waiting for since before his Hogwarts letter had arrived.

Truthfully, his one brush with danger was enough to do Neville for a lifetime. As he had sliced into Nagini, he had felt like his father's son. He had that golden thought; that, just maybe, his parents had been repaid for all of their suffering. But would his grandmother feel the same way?

As Neville pushed through the sea of hands seeking to congratulate him, he scarcely heard the cries of thanks and praise; there was only one opinion that mattered to him, really. Apprehension coiled in the pit of his stomach. He had achieved one moment of bravery, and his father had lived a lifetime of it. How could that possibly compare?

He rounded the Hufflepuff table, careful not to look at any of the bodies (he would make an appalling auror) laid out, and made his way to where his grandmother stood. Augusta looked smaller than he remembered, although her presence was every bit as formidable judging by the small crowd of people surrounding her, all of whom appeared too intimidated to move. Neville could more than sympathise. He paused, waiting for the opportune moment to interrupt, and was shocked by what he heard.

"...and that was my grandson, you know – my Neville who killed that filthy snake. Harry Potter couldn't have done it without him." She nodded knowingly, as though daring the surrounding people to argue with her. Pushing a strand of grey hair behind her ear, Augusta opened her moth as though to continue.

"Come on, Gran." He glanced apologetically at Padma Patil, but she only beamed at him in response.

"And here he is now! Tell us all about it, boy, don't be shy-"

"Oh, Gran. Can't we go home now?" Neville tried his best to sound exasperated, although he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	2. Barricade and Blossom: MoodyxTonks

**For Schermionie.**

**OoOoO**

It was all her fault – a churlish response to the situation, and one that he was _far_ too old to get away with using, but it was the only way that Alastor Moody could justify it. But really, it was true; if Tonks hadn't worked her way past his defences and into his heart, then he wouldn't be in this mess. He wouldn't feel guilty every time Tonks flashed one of her bright, open smiles at him and watched at him with big trusting eyes – no matter what she looked like, that trust never faded. Which it most certainly would if she found out...

He had watched an enthusiastic, if rather clumsy recruit advance through the department and blossom into a formidable auror. And an astonishing woman – the root of his problem.

Moody cared for each and every person to pass through the Auror Office, and he couldn't imagine feeling anything less. Risking one's life alongside another created a bond that, although not understood by outsiders, was unbreakable. However, aurors – good witches and wizards – died. It was unavoidable in their line of work, and so he had created certain barriers in order to protect himself. He couldn't afford to get too close to any of his colleagues.

But Tonks hadn't accepted that.

She had ignored his rebuffs and continued to act as though they were friends, good friends, until Moody realised that he had stopped resisting her efforts. Tonks had made herself a part of his routine, and not only that, but the brightest part of his day. It had reached the point of no return – he knew that if he lost her, he'd never be the same again. And he'd had to examine his feelings.

He loved her.

However, Moody could never tell her; he needed Tonks so much that it scared him, and he didn't want her to slip back out of his life. She was the most precious thing that he had, even if she would never know it.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	3. Curiosity: Rose Weasley

**This is my response to the Hogwarts Online October 29****th**** prompt.**

**OoOoO**

They had a lot to live up to; her, Hugo, James, Albus and Lily. They were the children of heroes, after all. And a heroine, Rose reminded herself. Their parents were exactly that – their parents. They laundered clothes, prepared food and took care of them just like other mothers and fathers all over the country. But other people's parents weren't gaped at in the street. People wouldn't point and whisper as they walked past, or beg for autographs. It was almost impossible to reconcile the idea of the three incredible people who had stopped Lord Voldemort with her family, all of whom were reassuringly mundane.

Still, Rose saw it; the way that her Uncle Harry would go to ridiculous lengths to help someone, and the serious look in his deep green eyes as he went about doing so; the way that her father cared so deeply for his friends and family – more so than anyone else Rose knew. And, most of all, the keen intelligence of her mother, her subtle brilliance that showed in her logic. They were ordinary people, on one level, and exceptional on another.

The others would be alright – they would forge their own identities at Hogwarts without difficulty. James was incredibly brave. Lily was, with the exception of her cousin Victoire, the most beautiful girl that Rose had ever seen, and kind with it. Albus was very like his father – a loyal friend. Hugo had the gift of making people laugh, and no doubt he would surround himself with friends in no time.

Where did that leave Rose?

Scared that she wouldn't fit in – that there would be nothing left to make her remarkable.

As she approached the Sorting Hat, willing herself not to stumble before the thousands of eyes that were focussed on her, Rose recalled her father's words as they had prepared to board the Hogwarts Express; _Thank God you inherited your mother's brains_. It was true that of all her characteristics, her intellect was the one that Rose valued the most. However, her mother was Hermione Granger. That wasn't something that anyone could compete with.

Acutely conscious of the fact that she was being watched, Rose rearranged her skirt as she sat. Rose knew that at the very least she could try – if she failed to live up to her mother's reputation, she could be the Weasley that worked hard. She gave a disdainful snort as the hat descended, shielding her from curious eyes. No. Rose was going to show the whole of Hogwarts that she was more clever than all of her exciting cousins.

"Ravenclaw!"

A little startled, Rose smiled as she realised that she had been sorted into the house renowned for being home to some of the greatest academics in history. And not a single one one of her family had been in Ravenclaw before her – she was the first.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	4. Defiant: Salazar Slytherin

**This is my response to **_**thethymeisright's**_** request for a story centric to Salazar Slytherin.**

**OoOoO**

The four of them balanced each other out perfectly, or so he had thought. When Godric grew too headstrong, Salazar would remind his fellow founder that the most honourable solution to a problem wasn't always expedient. When Rowena's analytical mind surged on ahead of the thoughts and feelings of others, Helga would place a hand on her arm and hint that compassion ought not to be left behind. An equation for success? Not quite.

What Salazar hadn't taken into account was that they weren't like him; not really. Certainly, as they had formulated their plans and watched the castle rise higher and higher still, they had been united by a shared ambition. Each, for whatever reason, had wanted a legacy. However, as soon as the construction of their school had been completed, the others had grown complacent.

Rowena had retreated into her library, researching the most obscure branches of magic.

Godric's limited attention span had dwindled, and he had turned back to duelling and whatever other reckless pursuits it was that entertained him.

And Helga... well, she was simply content to nourish the hearts and minds of her students.

Salazar, on the other hand, wanted _more_. He had tried to work within the confines of their castle, but it hadn't been enough. Especially once the others had grown suspicious and he had been forced to conceal his work on the Chamber of Secrets.

Then came the day on which he turned to them, looked each of his fellow founders in the eyes for one last time. Defiance shone from his eyes: he would not allow them to bridle the greatness of Slytherin.

And he turned his back on them.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	5. Echo and Enchanted: DracoxDominique

**This was written in response to **_**s i l v e r a u r o r a's**_** request for cross-gen on Hogwarts Online. **

**OoOoO**

He had made a lot of mistakes in his life, but Draco couldn't quite bring himself to think of her as one of them. No matter how many people would tell him that what he shared with Dominique was wrong, should it come to light, Draco knew that having a woman so precious, so fundamentally good and beautiful in his life, couldn't be a bad thing, regardless of the fact that she was indecently young. In some ways, Dominique's life was like a distant echo of his own; where he had been overshadowed by Harry Potter and his fantastic friends, she was inevitably overlooked because of the almost supernatural beauty of her older sister, Victoire.

However, Draco found that beside her angular features and the spiky personality underneath, Victoire's good looks took on an insipid quality. When he had told her so, Dominique had snorted in a most undignified manner and asked Draco, with astonishing bluntness, if he thought that he had a better chance with her than with Victoire. He had been so shocked that he had laughed.

He, Draco Malfoy, had laughed.

And from then onwards, Draco hadn't been able to forget her. She was altogether too spirited, a trait which Draco found most engaging, for her status as a Weasley to matter – Dominique had enchanted him. With her, he felt a hundred times what he felt with Astoria. She had wanted his money and what was left of his social influence, and Dominique – there came the surprising part of their affair – wanted Draco for the man that he was.

It was as though she saw past the Dark Mark on his arm, whenever her dark eyes met his.

It was as though she had wrapped those slender fingers of hers around his soul. And he didn't object; in fact, Draco didn't want Dominique to let go of his soul because it belonged to her.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	6. Fleeting: Albus Dumbledore

**OoOoO**

He had thought that he had suppressed the desire for power that had shaped his youth. Indeed, Albus Dumbledore had, for the most part, been content with his position as Headmaster. When he was in the peaceful environment of the school, surrounded by the innocence of children, it was easy to cast aside his ambitions – the wonders of childhood were but ephemeral, and in many ways Albus felt blessed to witness them so frequently.

Of course, in the span of his teaching career, Dumbledore's patience had been tested. Certain miscreants had irritated him (the paperwork spawned by their pranks was certainly not what he considered amusing, especially when it involved a lengthy correspondence with irate parents), and his dealings with the Ministry during the Fudge government were certainly frustrating, but only one person had ever succeeded in getting under his skin.

Dolores Umbridge.

She took pleasure in undermining the rules that he sought to enforce – the principals upon which Hogwarts had been founded. And it bothered him. Albus had made a conscious decision to avoid the temptations of a competitive lifestyle, and after all of the years spent inside the castle; he had assumed that the instinct to do whatever it took to remain the most powerful would have burned out. Instead, it had lain dormant inside him.

When Albus had learned of the decrees – and, if he was to be honest with himself, Umbridge's appointment to the position of 'High Inquisitor' – the prospect of returning to his old ways had never been so appealing. He had heard Gellert's voice, for a few fleeting moments.

"None deserve to rival our power, Albus." It was almost a caress. "Are you really going to let her interfere?"

Dumbledore's fingers, swollen and slightly arthritic, had twitched, ready to grasp his wand with the lightning quickness of his heyday. Some things never changed.

"They should change, Albus, not us – they will bow to our will." A shiver ran down his spine, and his breathing quickened. Panic or pleasure, Dumbledore couldn't be certain.

Shamed, Albus had paused before speaking in order to measure his words. He always maintained a polite tone when addressing Dolores Umbridge. Always; he couldn't afford to slip.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	7. Glory: Aberforth Dumbledore

**I realise that I may come across as anti-Dumbledore, which was not my intent. Albus is one of my favourite characters, but sadly my love for all things, homosexual Headmasters included, will always prove to be poor competition for the love I bare my muse.**

**OoOoO**

It went against the bond between brothers, and yet Aberforth despised Albus. He didn't believe for a moment that his brother, the unscrupulous young man whose aptitude for wand work was matched only by his talent for scheming, had reformed. What they didn't understand was that Albus was like a chameleon – he was like their mother in that regard – he knew how to adapt in order to gain power, and he could bide his time with ease. Albus had torn their family apart with his pretentions to greatness.

No matter how much time passed, Aberforth knew that he would always loathe his elder brother. Their precious little sister – too good, too innocent for a world inhabited by men like Albus and Gellert, and even men like him who could not let go of their hatred – had died as a direct consequence of Albus' unswerving selfishness. However, there was also a less noble reason that extended back to the days in which their feud had been insignificant enough to be labelled sibling rivalry; Aberforth was jealous.

A petty little part of him wanted the applause and the admiration that followed Albus like a personal spotlight. Aberforth wanted to possess the wit, the power and the creativity of his brother – to know what it was like to bask in his own value, to come closer to perfection than any one person deserved, to live the life of a hero, as marvellous and fabled as the spells he could cast... if only he were Albus.

But he was Aberforth, not Albus. He was not talented, nor was he clever. He had goats instead of glory.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	8. Hesitate: Rufus Scrimgeour

**This was written because I think that Scrimgeour was an exceptional leader.**

**OoOoO**

It was not the sum of his aspirations, the slip of parchment lying before him – a contract that would make him Minister for Magic. His place had been with the Aurors. It was not simply ambition that drove Rufus Scrimgeour – not by any stretch of imagination, because he was not a politician by nature – but rather the knowledge that he alone could be as ruthless as the magical community needed its leader to be if they wanted to make it out of the accursed war in one piece. And he had to act on that information; the instinct to do so had brought him this far.

Rufus had dedicated his life to serving justice. It hadn't always been easy, and the path of goodness had never been quite so far from darkness as people liked to imagine, but it was his calling.

He hadn't planned on being in a position to become Minister – Scrimgeour had been content to oversee the Aurors and do all that he could to maximise the efficiency of the department; there was something immensely satisfying about bringing in criminals. But the world had shifted, and in no time at all, the war eclipses every other issue. It had become increasingly obvious that decisive action was needed, and quickly. It had also become apparent that none of the power-hungry bureaucrats who desired the position were capable of filling it, and if it hadn't frustrated him so much then Rufus would have appreciated the irony of the situation.

As soon as Fudge had stepped down, Rufus had known what would happen – he was, after all, a military strategist, and politics wasn't as different from combat as some would pretend. For the first time since his days on the field, Scrimgeour had lost his temper and kicked over his desk. He made one grave error in placing his weight on his bad leg. Pain had flared in the crippling old injury that plagued him during the colder months, and his eyes had watered.

Hours later, his hip was throbbing horribly and the only sign of his outburst was the ink stain on the carpet. The words _Minister for Magic_ stared up at him, more intimidating than the eyes of any enemy that he had faced.

It was a burden that he would have to shoulder – there was no other way.

Dipping his quill into the inkwell, Rufus began to consider the first changes in tactics that would take place under him. He hesitated. A drop of ink fell onto the parchment, spreading slowly.

No matter how cleverly he played his hand, there was no telling what the outcome would be. Rufus did not like those odds, but it was a game of chance. And he would see it through to the end.

He signed his name, ignoring the small print. It was irrelevant what his salary would be, because Rufus doubted that he would have the time to spend more than a few sickles of it, regardless of the outcome of the war.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	9. Illusion: Narcissa Malfoy

**This is the bleakest drabble in the collection so far.**

**OoOoO**

Throughout her life, Narcissa had possessed either one of two qualities; potential and success. They had defined her, and without them she felt like nothing – in fact, she _was_ nothing, because there was nothing left for her to be. She had lived to be the best and brightest socialite, and remained by her husband's side as they had risen through the ranks of the Dark Lord's followers.

In the beginning, Narcissa had been the youngest – the darling of her family. Her father had spoiled her and her mother had cosseted her. It had been agreed by all who had witnessed the young Narcissa that she was going to grow into a beautiful, charming young woman. She had been adored by all belonging to the right circles, save for those who envied her, and Narcissa had used all of her allure to secure the man of her dreams: Lucius Malfoy.

He had been everything that she had wanted and more; handsome, intelligent, witty, and so debonair with it. The arrival of Draco, a son and heir, was supposed to signal the beginning of the happiest time of her life.

Only, Narcissa had learned that her dreams were an illusion. As Voldemort's wrath had been directed at her family, Narcissa's life had turned into a nightmare. She had lived in constant fear; fear that her son would be taken and killed; fear that her husband, already broken by the humiliation that he had suffered at the hands of his master, would be murdered in one of the Dark Lord's terrifying rages; fear that her unbalanced older sister would drag them further into the madness; fear that she was making the wrong decisions for her family.

Every moment, Narcissa was conscious of the fragility of her family. She was terrified. There was no reprieve from the grimness of her reality – her home, once a mark of privilege and splendour, had become a prison. An asylum. It was filled to the brim with darkness, evil and death. In the room where she and Lucius had thrown their wedding feast, she had watched a snake devouring human corpse. A droplet of blood had landed on her cheek, still warm. She hadn't dared to move, terrified that the serpent would turn and sink its fangs into her.

The memories of her former glory had decayed, and after the rest of the wizarding community ascended into Harry Potter's golden new world, Narcissa and her family were left in the shadows. Their family home was a museum and they were the relics of those dark times when fear had reigned. Their time as a highly regarded pureblood family had ended, and there was no potential for recovery.

It was over, for them.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	10. Jealousy: Rodolphus Lestrange

**OoOoO**

He had known that Bellatrix hadn't loved him when they were married, although it hadn't bothered Rodolphus at the time; most pureblood unions were undertaken out of duty, not passion. However, he had loved her for longer than he could remember – perhaps that curious jolt in his chest dated back to their time at Hogwarts. Bellatrix had always been spectacular; she had a flair for casting spells, in particular spells of the offensive variety, and witnessing her in a rage was like watching a natural disaster – being powerless to look away from the destruction, captivated by its magnitude and force. Her dark eyes would sparkle with a gleeful kind of malice, a delicate flush on her pale cheeks, and Rodolphus loved her for it.

At first, Rodolphus had considered himself to be very fortunate indeed. Not everyone was permitted to marry the woman of their choosing, after all, especially not their first love. Even if she didn't return his feelings, as she had made perfectly clear, it was better than being attached to someone of little consequence to him.

He had even imagined that once Bellatrix understood that he was the perfect companion for her – willing to be a considerate husband, yet skilled enough with magic to keep up with her cruelty, if not match it – that she would come to love him in return.

She hadn't.

Not only had Bellatrix continued to reject his feelings, but she had come to despise Rodolphus for his weakness. She taunted him in subtle ways, failing to correct anyone who addressed her as _Miss Black_, by neglecting to wear her wedding ring. It became impossible for him to ignite her fury, as no matter what Rodolphus said or did, Bellatrix treated him with indifference. She kept her inner fire away from him.

Worse still, she had given it to another, one who could never be warmed by it.

It was folly to oppose the Dark Lord – Rodolphus knew as much. To challenge his master was to choose humiliation and death, neither of which appealed to him in the slightest. But as he watched Bellatrix go to extreme after extreme in the hope of pleasing Lord Voldemort, Rodolphus felt a spike of envy being driven deeper and deeper into his soul. When the Dark Lord would enter a room, his wife ceased to be sullen and aloof; her entire demeanour changed, and she opened like an exotic flower, eager to engage Voldemort. No matter how much their master teased her, Bellatrix would continue her shameless quest to snare his heart of stone.

Consumed by his jealousy, Rodolphus ceased to care if the Dark Lord succeeded or was to be vanquished by Harry Potter – it mattered not, because Bellatrix cared nothing for him.

The walls of his world had come crashing down as she had fallen, taken down by that self-righteous Weasley woman. It was as though the impossible had come true. Bellatrix had been looking in the direction of Lord Voldemort as she had died, denying Rodolphus the opportunity to witness the light fading from her eyes one last time. In that moment he had hoped above all else that the Dark Lord would succeed and become immortal – if he was to live forever, then Voldemort would never be with Bellatrix again.

But things never worked out as Rodolphus hoped, and he knew it.

Bellatrix had made the ultimate sacrifice and died for Lord Voldemort, her final act a testament of her slavish adoration, and a short while later they had been reunited in the fires of hell. Together for eternity, whilst Rodolphus was alone in the limbo of Azkaban prison. The thought alone was punishment enough for his crimes.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	11. Karma: Bathilda Bagshot

**This was inspired by part one of the 'Deathly Hallows' film. **

**OoOoO**

Historians were only supposed to record events, not change them. And it was possible – to warp a reality with a few decisive strokes of a quill. If there was one thing that Bathilda Bagshot had learned in her years as a curator of history it was that the majority people were, to phrase it simply, lazy. More specifically, they were too lazy to think; they wouldn't even try to conduct research if they thought another had done it for them. It was why the histories of wizards and muggles alike were filled with bloodshed and conflict. It was, rather more fortunately for Bathilda, why her books had sold so well.

Only, as old age had approached, the threads of fact had become tangled and her arthritic fingers were too swollen to untie the knots. It became too difficult to pull away from the welcoming arms of the past and into lucidity, to succumb to the temptation of dwelling on better times.

The secrets that she was meant to safeguard had spilled from Bathilda's mouth before she had understood what it was that she was doing. They had been pulled apart and reconstructed by those large hands and their blood red fingernails, twisting the past until it was unrecognisable. And people would believe it.

Not only had she forgotten her responsibility to the truth – for those dizzying few hours, it was as though the green quill that had flown across the parchment, replacing fact with fiction, had hypnotised her – Bathilda had also forgotten her loyalty to a family that had once been great and proud. She had entrusted their past to another, unable to act on the nagging belief that she was doing the wrong thing.

In the increasingly brief snatches of reality that were gifted to her, Bathilda had been conscious of a guilt that had gnawed at her every thought. And so when he had appeared in her home, unnaturally pale in the darkness, she hadn't even reached for her wand or tried to remember what offensive spells she could use.

Bathilda knew, deep down, that she had disgraced the memories of the members of the Dumbledore family, and she didn't resist as the green light sped towards her – it was her payment, dying weak and without a friend, without a thought of the histories that she had recorded, only a memory of her mistake.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	12. Livid: VoldemortxBellatrix

**This was written in response to the Hogwarts Online January 31****st**** prompt. I'm glad to be writing drabbles again. This one is dedicated to **_**Inkfire**_**.**

**OoOoO**

Lord Voldemort didn't love her; he despised the emotion.

However, he tolerated it from Bellatrix Lestrange.

As was the case with all weaknesses, he found love to be repulsive in every way. To be vulnerable before another, to _savour _that hideous helplessness, was an idea that the Dark Lord found to be disgusting in every way. He had always done what was in his own best interests, and that wouldn't change – it was this ruthlessness that allowed him to become powerful, to have a name feared in every magical household across the country.

She too was ruthless.

In some ways, his first lieutenant was as sadistic as he was; the perfect match to his own cruelty. Perhaps this was why he was willing to show a rare degree of clemency and overlook Bellatrix's adoration, a passion that bordered on obsession. It was this fire that made her such an impressive witch – she was fearless in battle, fuelled by her own righteous fury, and relentless in her hatred. Watching her in combat was almost chilling, even to him. She was as quick and as deadly as a snake, precise yet utterly unpredictable. The livid glow of her curses, more often fatal than not, would shed light on the madness radiating from her eyes.

Infamous for her insanity, Bellatrix was merciless. She was the harbinger of death that had slithered from the darkest of nightmares.

The only trace of humanity left in her belonged to him and, in a perverse way, this pleased Lord Voldemort. He had watched an angry young woman transform into a cold, efficient killer and he had laughed. Bellatrix lived to serve her master. Naturally, he was prepared to use her zealous loyalty in any and every way that he could.

She was a glorious means to a perfect end, for Bellatrix was a tool to him, no matter how effective.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	13. Mesmerise: TeddyxVictoire

**I accidentally missed out a letter of the alphabet. My shame is now complete... This chapter is dedicated to **_**PrincessPearl**_**.**

**OoOoO**

Victoire had always had the power to mesmerise, even as a small child. It seemed as though she had inherited her generation's share of the Veela charm, because she could captivate an audience without being aware of it.

In fact, one of Teddy's favourite memories was of the day that Victoire went missing – not because he took any pleasure in her absence (quite the contrary; he had been terrified that he would never see her again), but rather because of what had happened as a result. The extended Weasley family had given up looking in the house and were exploring the grounds of Shell Cottage, each silently terrified that Victoire had found the cliffs, when they had heard the unmistakable sound of her laughter.

Teddy recalled the way in which his anger and frustration at having been made to panic like never before had melted like a cloud before the sun when he had caught sight of her. Victoire was running through the field, her hair flying behind her, every bit as golden as the corn growing around her, and her chubby little arms spread wide in an unmistakable gesture of freedom. He had watched with the adults and baby Dominique as she had batted the stalks of corn out of her way, her infant features dimpled by pure delight.

It was a day that he liked to recall – the first time he had realised that Victoire was more than just a beautiful girl. From then on, she had become precious to him. More precious than all of her cousins, even the Potter children (not that Teddy would ever have admitted it) and in turn, Victoire reserved a particular affection for him.

When he brought up that day in the cornfields, even to his godfather who understood him better than anyone, Teddy was amazed that nobody else understood the magic of it. Bill and Fleur were exasperated by the memory, unable to recall how truly wonderful the sight of their eldest child had been, and Dominique was too little to remember. Victoire, on the other hand, would smile and say that she had enjoyed the feeling of the soil beneath her feet. She would giggle whenever Teddy tried and failed to articulate what had been special about it, and look at him in a way that said she understood perfectly.

It was their secret.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	14. Nostalgia: Andromeda Tonks

**This was written in response to the Hogwarts Online February 1****st**** prompt.**

**OoOoO**

She knew that she had come out of the war comparatively lucky, but Andromeda found little solace in the fact. Her husband, who had liberated her from a life of darkness, had died at the hands of the Snatchers, and her daughter, always so bright and full of life, had been murdered by the Death Eaters. However, she had her own life to be thankful for, as well as that of her grandson. He was an adorable little boy and, to some extent he filled up the void left in her heart. Of course it was true that Teddy was the light of her life, but Andromeda couldn't stop herself from dwelling upon times past.

Maybe it had been youth, or perhaps it had been the passion between her and Ted; either way, Andromeda found herself missing the excitement she had once taken in life. It was as though the joy Ted had brought her in teaching her how it felt to be loved had ebbed away, leaving only a drab semblance of the life they had build behind. He had always been so solid in life – dependable too, which was why it bothered her that so little was left of him; His grandson, his clothes, his favourite armchair – all of these things reminded her of his absence.

They had spent their time together chasing dreams. At the time it had made Andromeda happy, however she hadn't thought how empty her hand would feel when clutching nothing more than thin air.

She missed the fierce love of motherhood that had reshaped her life after Nymphadora had been born. Certainly, she adored Teddy, but it wasn't quite the same as looking down into her arms and knowing that this was _her _child, her perfect creation.

Teddy was an engaging baby, maybe even more so than his mother had been, although due to her advancing age Andromeda suspected that she felt this way because of her own waning vitality. When his hair changed colour – sandy brown to indigo, to ginger and back again – she could watch him for hours on end.

However, her love of her grandson didn't negate Andromeda's nostalgia.

She longed for the chubby little hands that had clung to her hair, belonging to a child who had called her mummy.

She longed to hear Ted's rumbling laughter and feel his arms around her waist.

In short, Andromeda longed for a time when the best was yet to come.

**OoOoO**

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


End file.
